


Richard Cory

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Suicide, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly and Grantaire work in a factory owned by Enjolras's father.</p>
<p>Based on the eponymous song (by Simon & Garfunkel) and poem (by Edwin Arlington Robinson).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Richard Cory

**Author's Note:**

> I just felt like writing a boatload of angst.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

The day was cold and gray, and Feuilly shivered, pulling his thin jacket closer around his shoulders as he made his way to the factory at which he worked. The building was tall and imposing and perfectly identical to every other factory owned by the Enjolras family, one of the wealthiest families in Paris, if not in all of France. M. Enjolras had been particularly instrumental in lending money to the French government to help squash rebellion in the city, particularly following General Lamarque’s death only a few years prior. What made it more interesting was that his only son, Enjolras, had once been outspoken against the monarchy and the corruption in the government, speaking for the cause of the people.

Once, but no longer.

Now, Enjolras the younger was rarely seen in public society, and when he was, it was as a quiet, wan figure, normally following after his father like the obedient son he was assumedly forced to be. Feuilly did not know what had transpired to cow Enjolras, but given how fierce he had been before, it could not have been pleasant. It was a shame — Feuilly had been to see Enjolras speak, once, back when still he had a voice, and he had found himself in agreement with the man.

Still, Feuilly’s concern was less with the wealthy son of an even wealthier family, and more with getting to work on time, as the foreman did not tolerate tardiness. He made his way quickly inside, where he shucked his jacket and took his place, ready for a grueling shift. Today, though, there was a new worker beside him, a genial enough fellow with dark curls and a sallow complexion, who offered his hand for Feuilly to shake as he told him, “My name is Grantaire.”

“Feuilly,” he responded, assuming that would be the end of their conversation for as long as they were working next to each other, as conversation was not necessarily encouraged in the factory.

But Grantaire appeared not to realize that, or just didn’t care, as he began keeping up a steady stream of chatter as they worked. “Can’t say I thought I’d see myself in this factory,” Grantaire said as they set to work. “Can’t say I thought I’d see myself working in any factory.”

Feuilly shot him a sideways glance, looking closely at the man’s hands, which, while rough and scarred, didn’t have the look of someone who had spent his life doing much physical labor. His lips tightened slightly and he said, a little curtly, “It’s good, honest work, long hours and difficult conditions though there may be. You’ll certainly not complain when you’ve your wages in your pocket at week’s end.”

Grantaire did not look offended; instead, he smiled widely at Feuilly. “Oh, it’s not the work that bothers me. My father just always said I was too lazy for manual labor — my mother that I was too wild — and I always just thought my artistic temperament did not suit the work.”

Though Feuilly wanted to just grunt in response, to leave the conversation to its end, he instead glanced at Grantaire again, his interest piqued. “Oh? You are an artist, then?”

“I dabble,” Grantaire said, non-comittally, though his smile widened as he looked at Feuilly. “And you?” Feuilly shrugged and Grantaire positively beamed at him. “Ah! I thought I had recognized a kindred soul!”

Feuilly bit back his sharp retort that he doubted they were  _kindred —_  after all, Feuilly had not had the luxury of exploring his more artistic tendencies-and settled instead for saying, “I used to make fans.”

Grantaire nodded, still smiling. “A worthy endeavor,” he assured Feuilly. “Far more worthwhile than anything I did with my art, and far more profitable, I would assume, even if not for you.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Feuilly asked bluntly. “Your art was not turning profit?”

Now Grantaire’s smile faltered, and he looked away. “Something like that,” he mumbled. “Suffice it to say, I fell upon hard times, and here I am.”

Feuilly was about to question him farther, but then the foreman boomed loudly, “Gentlemen, this is a factory, not a café. If you wish to converse, you may do it on your own time.”

Both men quickly turned back to their work, but Grantaire couldn’t help but give Feuilly a wink, and Feuilly couldn’t help but shake his head and smile slightly before bending to his task.

* * *

 

Feuilly would not go so far as to say that what grew between the two men was friendship, but there was a certain companionship that arose, such that not even their varying natures and circumstances could diminish. And despite his thoughts to the contrary, Grantaire proved capable of the work, and thought he did not always manage it without complaint, some of his more wordy rants under his breath was enough to bring a smile to Feuilly’s lips even in the drudgery of the factory.

It was after a week that Grantaire casually asked, “Do either of MM. Enjolras ever visit the factory?”

Frowning, Feuilly glanced over at him, his stands stilling for a moment before resuming their task. “Every now and then, the elder Enjolras more frequently than his son.” Silence fell between them until Feuilly asked, to sate his curiosity more than anything, “Why do you want to know?”

Grantaire shrugged and avoided Feuilly’s gaze. “I merely wondered if the powers on high ever deigned to turn their attention to the day-to-day. Though I suppose so long as their coffers are full they’ve no reason to concern themselves.”

Feuilly did not press him further on the subject, though he suspected there was rather more to it than mere curiosity on Grantaire’s part. Still, he had little need to pursue it further, especially when Grantaire steered the conversation to a most humorous discussion of their foreman’s nose.

In fact, Feuilly put the matter from his mind, until, at least, late one evening, when Feuilly was convinced by an old friend to join him for a drink. Ordinarily, Feuilly had neither the time nor the spare money for such a thing, but he decided to indulge. And when he left the café at which they had split a bottle of wine, he was surprised by the sight of Grantaire in the alley next to the shop, slumped against the wall, clearly having just emptied the contents of his stomach, judging by the smell. “Grantaire?” Feuilly called, starting down the alley.

Grantaire looked up at him, a glazed look on his face. “Feuilly?” he asked, slowly straightening, though he swayed on his feet. “I regret that you see me like this.”

“I care not about seeing you like this,” Feuilly told him, concern evident in his voice. “I am only glad that you are still alive. If you have drunk enough to empty your stomach you may also have drunk enough to bring your life to an end.”

To his surprise, his words seemed to be quite amusing to Grantaire, who barked a laugh, toppling over as he did, unable to keep his balance as he laughed. “Ah, but Feuilly, didn’t you see the papers?” he asked, his voice bitter despite his laughter. “My life is ended anyway.”

Feuilly did not know to what Grantaire referred; he had not paid close attention to the evening paper, save for the headline, which seemed to imply that Enjolras the younger had gotten betrothed to a wealthy socialite. He wondered for a moment if that was to what Grantaire referred, if Grantaire had, for some reason or another, a vested interest in Enjolras the younger, remembering suddenly their conversation from earlier. Well, no matter now — now, Feuilly’s concern was that Grantaire did not drink himself to death or spend the night in this dank alley. “I am certain whatever it is, it will seem better in the morning,” Feuilly said matter-of-factly, heaving Grantaire off the ground by his armpits. “Though with as much as you smell like you’ve had, perhaps it would be better if you did not see the morning, if only to avoid the inevitable headache and ill stomach.”

Grantaire leaned heavily against Feuilly as they began shuffling in the general direction Grantaire looked as if he had been heading. “You are a good friend, Feuilly,” Grantaire slurred, his lolling against Feuilly’s shoulder. “Nay, not just a good friend — you are a good  _man_. He would like you, I think, if still he had his lofty ideals and his spirit was not broken.”

Now Feuilly frowned at Grantaire, and almost asked about whom he was referring, but decided against it, instead saying simply, “And I’m sure I would like him. And thank you.” He paused, hesitating over whether to say more. He settled for shifting Grantaire’s weight against his side and telling him, “You are going to have to give me directions to your home, though, as I know not where you live.”

Though his voice was still slurred, clearly Grantaire had gotten the worst of his feelings out of his system, as he was able to give Feuilly fairly clear directions, and in any case, his lodgings were not far from the café behind which Feuilly had found him. It took only a few minutes more to get Grantaire there and up the stairs, and Feuilly watched with a wary eye as Grantaire collapsed onto his bed, still fully clothed. “Are you going to be alright?”

Grantaire waved almost lazily at him without sitting upright. “I shall be fine. I always am.” Feuilly shrugged and turned to leave, but Grantaire’s hand shot out, encircling his wrist. “Thank you,” Grantaire said, his voice suddenly quiet and sincere.

“It is no trouble,” Feuilly told him, a little uncomfortable, though he quickly added, “You would do the same for me.” As he said the words, he realized that he meant them — though he had not known Grantaire long, he had no doubt that the man would do much for those he considered friend.

The next day, Grantaire was at work on time, though he looked a little worse for wear, and though neither he nor Feuilly mentioned the previous night, when they went their separate ways at the end of the day, Grantaire squeezed Feuilly’s shoulder gently, the touch saying more than words ever could.

* * *

 

It was not the last of the things printed about M. Enjolras the younger in the paper. The Enjolras family was popular both to uphold and to tear down, and rumors ran wild regarding Enjolras, attractive yet virginal. “Have you heard of the party he held on his boat?” one of the factory workers asked. “They say he paid twenty ladies of the night to entertain all the guests as many times as they wanted.”

“On  _his_  boat?” Grantaire asked skeptically. “I did not know the Enjolras family owned a boat.”

The factory worker shrugged, and another jumped in. “Oh, it wasn’t his — it was the de Courfeyrac’s. Least that’s what I heard.”

Grantaire snorted. “You could find a working lady to come tell me herself how many times she pleasured M. Enjolras, and still I would not believe it. It is rumor mongering, nothing more.”

Still, despite his dismissal of those rumors, Grantaire seemed to keep a ready ear out for any news of Enjolras, even just as simply as the reports of Enjolras attending the opera or the theatre. And one day, one factory worker was overhead telling another that Enjolras the younger had apparently pledged a portion of his fortune to the aid of those in need in the city. “As if he would care about us,” another factory worker said scornfully.

“It’s what I heard!” the first replied defensively.

Grantaire shook his head and Feuilly gave him a look. “Have you no opinion to offer?” he asked, only partly joking.

Grantaire just shrugged. “If there are any rumors about the master of this factory that I would believe, it is that he would dedicate some of his wealth to the people. Provided his father allowed it.”

Feuilly pursed his lips. “It seems more far-fetched to me than an orgy on his boat,” he pointed out. “The rich get up to all manner of things, and you’re quick enough to dismiss those.”

Shrugging again, Grantaire wiped his hands on his trousers, a determined set to his jaw. “From what little knowledge I have, this is more likely to me than any of the other rumors. Enjolras just seems the type to be more inclined to charity than to sexual deviancy.”

“Well you’ve a chance to find out for yourselves,” the grizzled man to Feuilly’s right told them, unashamedly eavesdropping on their conversation. “Rumor has it that both father and son will be visiting our factory on the morrow.”

Feuilly glanced at Grantaire, unsurprised to see that his expression seemed torn between excitement and worry, and shook his own head slowly. “Then I suppose we will have a chance to see for ourselves.”

And indeed they did, for just as rumored, both MM. Enjolras arrived promptly at the factory the following morning, the elder M. Enjolras dressed impeccably, with an almost sneer on his face as he glanced officiously around. The younger M. Enjolras trailed behind him, also dressed impeccably, cravat tied neatly up to his chin, but his golden curls, which had looked so much like a lion’s mane when Feuilly saw him speak, were lank and dimmed, combed back and tied away from his face. His clothes were elegant and expensive, but only served to show that the man looked thin, frail even, and he made no attempt to even glance around, keeping his gaze firmly on the ground.

Still, Grantaire stared openly at him, something close to fascination on his face. It was rather as if he was looking into the sun, Feuilly mused as he glanced at him, the way that Grantaire stared openly. But there was more to it than fascination — there was almost a sorrow there, hidden in Grantaire’s eyes, and even more than that, even more than fascination, there was a look of pure, unadulterated longing.

So much so that Feuilly was not the only one who noticed.

The foreman crossed over to them, scowling deeply. “Back to work,” he barked, his temper not much improved by MM. Enjolras’s presence. “We are not paying you to stare, and the likes of you would do well to remember yourselves and your station.”

“What’s this?” M. Enjolras the elder asked loudly, looking around and waking towards the source of the disturbance.

The foreman glared at Grantaire, who promptly dropped his eyes, though a muscle worked in his jaw. M. Enjolras glared at Grantaire and swept his gaze across the factory before telling the foreman, “Keep your men in line. This is a factory, not a circus.”

He turned and strode to a different part of the factory, Enjolras trailing after him, no indication that he had even noticed what had just taken place. Suddenly, ignoring the foreman, who was still glaring daggers at him, Grantaire stooped to pick a scrap of lace from the ground. “Monsieur!” Grantaire called breathlessly, running after Enjolras, ignoring the foreman, who let out a furious yelp. “Monsieur, your handkerchief. You dropped it.”

Enjolras paused in his step and allowed Grantaire to press the scrap of cloth into his hand. “My thanks,” he murmured, his melodic voice quiet and dull, though when he looked at Grantaire, there appeared to be a flicker of recognition in his expression, and his hand brushed against Grantaire’s as it closed on the cloth. “You — you work here?” Grantaire nodded, and Enjolras asked, his voice still quiet, and now sounding almost strained, “And are you…are you happy?”, adding quickly, “Working here, I mean.”

Grantaire gave him a smile such as Feuilly had never seen the man give to another living soul. “In your presence, how could I be anything but happy?” Grantaire asked gently, his voice so quiet that Feuilly almost could not hear him, despite his proximity.

For a moment, it looked as if Enjolras might smile, too, but then his father’s voice said sharply, “Jean. We’re leaving”, and Enjolras flinched, and the moment was gone, his expression dropping quickly back into its mask. He turned without another word to follow his father out, leaving Grantaire staring after him until the foreman came up and yanked on Grantaire’s arm, pulling him back to his place.

“I should box your ears for that,” the foreman grumbled. “Disturbing M. Enjolras like that. Why would you think he would ever want to talk to the likes of you?”

“Why indeed,” Feuilly murmured, less in agreement with the foreman and more with a question towards Grantaire, who blushed slightly but determinedly went back to work. When the foreman finally left to pace to the other side of the factory, Feuilly asked Grantaire in an undertone, “What was  _that_  about? He knew you, I know he did, I saw it in his face. How? Why?”

Grantaire just shook his head. “It is not a story worth telling,” he muttered, avoiding Feuilly’s gaze. “One day perhaps. But not today.”

“But you  _know_  him,” Feuilly said quietly. “I heard the man speak, once, but he would not know me from Adam. You he  _knew_ , you he  _recognized_.”

Grantaire shook his head again. “It is nothing,” he said, his voice even quieter as he added, “It seems another lifetime now.”

And no matter how Feuilly pressed him for information, Grantaire divulged no further information on how he and M. Enjolras the younger were acquainted, though Feuilly could not help but think, as he made his way back to his own lodgings that night, that there was rather more to the story than Grantaire wanted him to think.

* * *

 

 One evening, as Feuilly was leaving the factory, the little urchin boy selling newspapers was shouting something over the hustle of the exiting factory workers, and Feuilly made his way over, curious. “Did you see, sir?” the boy asked eagerly, pressing a paper into Feuilly’s hand. “He’s gone and killed himself! It’s the scandal of the year!”

Feuilly stared at the headline, his heart sinking. There, printed on the front page in bold type, were the words: “JEAN ENJOLRAS DEAD”, followed by, “Wealthy Factory Owner’s Son Shoots Self in Head”.

For a moment, the words seemed to blur together, but then Feuilly looked up sharply, searching through the crowd for the only person he wanted to see. “Grantaire!” he called, as soon as he caught the dark-haired man’s eye.

Grantaire just smiled at him, a terrible, twisted approximation of his usual cheerful grin, and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Feuilly standing there, alone with no more than the newspaper in his hand and the trepidation in his heart for company.

* * *

 

It was perhaps appropriate that the morning of the funeral was a gray and drizzly morn. M. Enjolras — there was no need to differentiate younger or elder now — ordered that all factory workers be excused from their duties to attend the funeral and pay their respects. Feuilly did not quite understand why, as there was sure to be a number of society people in attendance and surely that comingling would be looked down upon.

But it was no matter. He went with all of his brethren to the funeral, and was surprised to see Grantaire there, too, as he had not attended work the past few days (when questioned, the foreman said simply that Grantaire had taken ill). Of course, Grantaire’s ashen face and trembling hands lent themselves to the appearance that he was indeed ill, but Feuilly knew it was more than that.

The funeral was mostly boring, almost bureaucratic in nature, though Feuilly was surprised to see that M. Enjolras looked almost as shaken as Grantaire at his son’s suicide.  _And good riddance_ , Feuilly thought bitterly, staring at the man contemptuously,  _as it was undoubtedly you what drove him to it_.

But whether because of the weather or just because there was not much one could say in regards to Enjolras the younger, who had once shone so brightly only to burn out long before his time, the funeral was at least a short affair, the wealthier attendees scattering at the final “requiescat in pace” and the factory workers filtering out shortly after. Even M. Enjolras did not seem to want to linger at his son’s grave and soon, far too soon, Feuilly was the only one left.

Well, the only one besides Grantaire.

Grantaire had not moved or spoken during the entire service, only uttering a little gasp once, when the officiant — not a priest, of course, given the nature of Enjolras’s death — said that Enjolras now slept among the stars.

Feuilly hesitated, not wanting to disturb Grantaire from whatever vigil he kept, but eventually joined him, standing together at the foot of Enjolras’s grave. They stood in silence for a long moment until Grantaire said softly, “We were at school together.”

Though Feuilly looked over at him, he did not say anything, for fear of interrupting whatever Grantaire needed to get out. Grantaire closed his eyes, and Feuilly was unsurprised to see tears beginning to run down his cheeks. “We were at school together. I was older than he, but it would have made no difference. He was beyond his years in so many ways. And he was—” Grantaire’s voice broke, but he also smiled slightly. “I wish you could have seen him then. He was…he was  _incredible_. All fire and passion and strength and intelligence. He wanted nothing to do with his father, nothing to do with any of that life. He wanted to change the world.”

“I went to see him speak, once,” Feuilly told him quietly. “A few years ago, before everything.”

Grantaire nodded. “Then you know what he was like.” He broke off again and his voice turned bitter. “But then his father stepped in. I know not the details — I do not think I could stomach knowing the details — but somehow, Enjolras’s father beat it out of him. He broke him, if not bodily, then in spirit. And after that, Enjolras was never the same. Any plans towards rebellion that he had planned — they died with the part of Enjolras that died then.”

Feuilly did not know how to word the question best, but he had to know. “Were you — and he—“

Shaking his head, Grantaire looked away from him, the tears flowing freely. “What does it matter now?” he asked quietly.

They fell into silence again before Grantaire managed to regain a semblance of control. “After Enjolras…changed…I must admit that I did not handle things particularly well. I lost a part of myself that day as well, and I went to pieces. I turned to drink even more than I previously had, losing myself in my wine and my absinthe, and my money was lost quickly to my vices. When I realized I had no choice but to work to support myself, I decided, pathetic though you must think me, to work for Enjolras.” His voice cracked as he continued, “I thought — just one look — I could be happy with that, with the promise of that…”

“And now it matters not.”

Feuilly bowed his head, his mind racing at all that Grantaire had just told him. He could not find it in himself to be truly surprised, with what little knowledge he had gleaned of Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship over the weeks he had known Grantaire, but still…

“I suppose it became too much for him,” Grantaire continued. “He was always so strong, but the part of him that died at his father’s hands was as much his soul as anything. And how long can one live without his soul?” Whether it was meant to be rhetoric or not, Grantaire seemed to answer his own question. “Well, I suppose I shall soon find out.”

Feuilly looked sharply at him. “Surely you cannot mean—”

Grantaire shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “In that regard I find myself envious of Enjolras,” he mumbled. “The rich can afford to kill themselves. I’ve my own debts to think of, and on whom they would fall if I too put a pistol to my temple and pulled the trigger.”

Feuilly’s breath seemed to stick in his throat, and his shook his head. “Grantaire, you mustn’t think this way,” he said, a little desperately. “Be serious. Surely the death of even one such as Enjolras is not enough to drive you so close to despair.”

His words had a queer effect on Grantaire, who surprisingly smiled. “But I am wild,” he said. Then, just as quickly as it crossed his face, his smile disappeared, leaving him grief-stricken. “Ah, my friend. If Enjolras’s soul died the day the revolution was beaten from him, I fear mine has been buried in the dirt at our feet. And without even the thought of him alive and at least partially whole to get me through my day…”

He did not finish his thought, and Feuilly was lost for words to say to him, to try to reassure him. What words could make a difference in a situation such as this, in a place such as this? Instead, he watched mutely as Grantaire slowly put his hat on his head and dipped the brim almost mockingly at the pile of dirt. “Be easy, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered, then, without looking at Feuilly, began slowly walking out.

Feuilly was torn between chasing after him and simply making his way back to the factory, where, if he did not hurry, his presence would be missed. He glanced down at the damp earth at his feet and shivered, drawing his jacket closer around his shoulders, and with only one final glance at Grantaire’s retreating back, left the opposite direction, toward the factory.

He was not surprised that Grantaire never returned to the factory.

He was even less surprised when he visited his lodgings a week later to find them cleared out.

His body was never recovered, but Feuilly supposed that the Seine was as good a resting place as the cold earth, especially if Grantaire’s soul could somehow find Enjolras’s in whatever afterlife they found themselves.

And Feuilly returned every day to the factory, his spirit a little more bowed, his shoulders a little more hunched, breaking but not broken, not yet, no matter how the shackles of poverty took their toll.


End file.
